


The Typewriter

by Silver33650



Series: Tarnished Ghosts and Polished Shadows [9]
Category: Fortnite (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Depression, Gen, Letters, Memory Loss, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Paranoia, Swearing, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27639506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver33650/pseuds/Silver33650
Summary: Midas against the loop, balancing the plan and the past.
Series: Tarnished Ghosts and Polished Shadows [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923190
Kudos: 11





	The Typewriter

In days long past, Midas had written his letters the old fashioned way. He would sit at his desk with actual pen and paper and threw out any pages where the ink blotted or his lines slanted or it didn't quite look _perfect_. So he bought a typewriter, hoping that would solve his problems, but the machine was finicky and he wasted just as much paper as he had before. That, and the fact that he had to push so hard on the keys that he inadvertently turned them to gold every so often, which hid the letters printed on them and made it even harder to use.

He was about to turn the whole thing to gold and sell it when he found his sister messing with it one day, tinkering with the keys and the spool and humming to herself. He startled her when he asked what she was doing and caused her to cover them both with ink and gears, but she was adamant that she could improve it. He found her asleep next to it late at night, still covered in ink, and gently picked the machine up and took it back to his office. The keys were so responsive that he could now complete a line in moments, and he was shocked that he could actually see what he was typing without having to hit the carriage return. He finished entire pages without error, sliding the sheets in and out without worrying about jamming. Then Jules came in, tired and rubbing her eyes, and told him that she could make it even quieter so she could sleep in peace.

But that noise had stuck with him, the clackety-clack of the typewriter keys as he worked, and he thought of it now at his new job with his new typewriter. One that shot ten bullets per second from a forty round clip, but diplomacy wasn't exactly an option in a place where words became warped and memories went missing. He saw the blank gazes on those he faced at the Agency, heard his own voice garbled and distorted, and reminded himself that there was more to all of this. All the precautions they took, all the preparations, and still there were days when he found himself forgetting. Then he would see the picture on the bookshelf, draw the phonograph needle onto the record for a little bit, and it would all come rushing back.

It wasn't that they couldn't communicate, just that all their old words no longer made sense. They still recognized the letters written on signs around the island, and their own writing when they did so. But the second they opened their mouths, the intended syllables shifted back on themselves, twisting into something else, something incomprehensible. 

Writing wasn't as fast as speech. They needed new words. New words for _hello_ and _goodbye_ and _please tell me what you would like for dinner because there's currently a tie between Pizza Pit and Durr Burger._ New words for _over there_ and _I see him_ and _help._

 _Help_ came up a lot. From the henchmen, not from him. 

It echoed through his radio as he raced through the halls in confusion. It echoed in his mind when he crawled on the floor, hoping to find a hand that could pick him up. But it did not follow him back to his office, where he would sit, confused, for a few moments before he looked at the bookshelf and forced himself to remember. 

The loop wanted to steal everything he had from before, from outside its reach, to leave him only reminders of all his failures in its domain until the bitterness dug into his bones and spurred him to violence. He'd known it going in, but experiencing it was something else. To be inside the loop was _draining_. It was no wonder most people became drones, boarding the bus again and again all for that little sign that proclaimed them number one. Only then did the loop not end in pain. Only then did the loop give a reward, fleeting as it was. There was so little that endured each loop. Too little, he wondered, or too much?

How many times had this cycle completed? How many times would it begin yet again?

It tore at him, the fact that the loop had gone on for so long and would keep going on in the future. And it wasn't even a problem he could solve, unlike the storm. Indeed, the whole plan rested on the fact that the loop was there and functioning. But that didn't mean he had to like it. 

Some days he patrolled the Agency halls in a daze, unable to aim at anything. Some days it was like playing hide and seek, but he was always it, and everyone else was cheating, forcing him to run around in circles without any idea where the trespassers could be. Some days he ran right into the strangers, with nary a word on the radio to warn him, and his gun started its clackety-clack until one of them was on the ground. He didn't feel relief if it was them. That only came when he was the one back in his office, when his heart beat out its refrain of _revenge revenge revenge_ but he ignored it. Or tried to. 

_Next time next time next time....  
_

But the time that was most important was the time spent in his office, poring over the pages of the plan until his sense of purpose returned. _Defy the storm._ He looked at the suit in its case, one of the only two in existence. The third one was lost along with the vision in his eye, but that had been a small price to pay for the privilege to lead this mission. His eyes drifted to the bookshelf. The real price had been paid elsewhere, god help him. 

_Dear Jules, I don't know what possessed you to leave the Agency and join up with the enemy, but I can tell you that you are very much in danger every second you spend there. Please come home immediately, and you will have my full protection again, as always. Your worried older brother, Midas_

_Dear Jules, The other agents are very eager to meet you when you return. Please come home immediately, and we can get you introduced. We can play games and watch movies and look up at the stars. And I will get your favorite flavor ice cream, just like we used to. I've included a poster that should help you remember how much your big brother cares about you. We all want you to come back. Your concerned older brother, Midas_

_Dear Jules, I can't do this without you. Please come home immediately. Your impatient older brother, Midas_

_Dear Jules, If you insist on remaining with the enemy, then I will have no choice but to treat you as one. I do not want to do that. The only way I can avoid that, however, is for you to come home immediately. You are treading dangerous ground as you are now, and for what? Some rebellious phase? You are no longer a child. Stop acting like one. End this petty little stunt, and return to the Agency. Your brother, Midas_

He should not have sent the last one. Or any of the ones after that. But he had to hold onto the memory that he had done so, even if he would rather forget it. 

_Dear Midas, You've always treated me like a child, except for when you needed to use me as a tool, and then I was no different from everyone else because that's just how you see people. I've finally realized that. Everyone is just a means to an end to you. Just like any object you don't like. One touch, and it's gilded away. I bet you'll even do that to this: crumple it up and gild it so you don't have to look at it anymore. Sincerely, Jules_

She wasn't wrong, but at least he hadn't proven her right. For there was her last gift, sitting next to the phonograph, watching his every move. The one thing he never touched, lest he lose it by accident. 

* * *

They were like wasps, he decided. Darting and diving their way around the Agency. Stinging his henchmen and sometimes himself. But Midas was well-practiced in swatting bugs. 

Clackety-clack, went the drum gun, and it was just as accurate as his typing ability, back in the day. _The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog._ Not a single character misplaced, not a single backspace required. Chilling in its precision. The drone took them away, and he took the time to reload. It was so silent without them around. But silence didn't mean safety. 

_Help_ , went the radio, and he raced to the entryway. He scanned the balconies, couldn't help but admire the high ceiling and skylight. The architecture of his Agency had been worth every penny. He circled the pool, wary. No gunfire, and yet, somebody had definitely seen something if they'd called for help. 

There, under the stairwell, using bandages. He said some witty one-liner, but he knew they wouldn't understand him. Their face filled with confusion, even disgust, as the drone spirited them away. Another thwarted infiltration. But it didn't feel like winning. 

* * *

He did remember the last time he'd used the typewriter, the exact one that Jules had worked on. Another memory he couldn't afford to lose. Even though he had a computer, he'd pulled the typewriter out of the basement, ignoring Jules' curious gaze as he set it on the table. He slid in a sheet of paper, hovered his fingers over the keys- all turned to gold long ago- and typed the first sentence with a few flicks of his fingers. Jules lingered behind his chair to read over his shoulder while pretending to look in the fridge. He'd smirked, because this was all just a show for her benefit. 

_Defy the storm._

It was what he had begged her to do when he'd finally caved and given her one of the secrets he'd kept for so long. What he started the project proposal with, how he would begin the presentation for the board of directors. (Not that he needed their permission, but he valued their support.) What would go in the top secret mission file that so few people would see. 

It was the only phrase that could beat back all the others, when the loop tried to steal his mind. Defy the storm. Defy the storm. 

But he had to defend the Agency too. 

* * *

He didn't have that typewriter now; once again, he was restricted to writing things by hand. By choice, because he didn't want to risk leaving his plans on some hackable computer. Reports, receipts, and most importantly, redactions. Removing any intelligence too critical for even his agents to see. 

But what he didn't record was the passing of each loop, of the times when the bus appeared and duty called and the halls filled with bullets until he was back in his office. The loop was such a constant that it didn't seem worth tracking. But it was present all the same, wearing away at him, forcing him to remember the plan. The phonograph. The photograph. The constant refrain of _defy the storm._

It wasn't enough. 

He needed a way to keep track of time, or it would keep slipping away from him. Already he had lost days, perhaps even a week. Brutus had come to him asking for more tasks, and he'd had to scramble to throw a list together. He tapped his pen on his desk until Brutus left, then slid the needle onto the record and closed his eyes as the violins murmured and the saxophones chattered. Jules loved music too, but rarely had their tastes overlapped. 

He stared at the blank sheet of paper on his desk. Well, mostly blank: there was a slight stain at the bottom where ink had bled from above. He crumpled that one and wrote on the pristine sheet underneath. 

_Dear Jules, Although you are still welcome back at any time, I am pleased to inform you that your services are no longer needed. I may not have your mind, but I have your ideas, and I'll see them through, with or without you. I look forward to a day where we can work on the same side again, where-_

_Everyone is just a means to an end to you._

He scowled. Ripped the paper to shreds, threw them in the wastebin, then emptied it into the lake around the Agency, snapping at everyone he passed on the way. When he was back in the office, he flipped over his record and played the reverse side, then sat at his desk and wrote a letter on a completely different subject. 

* * *

"She's here," Brutus reported, after he'd joined Shadow as planned. 

Midas acknowledged the message and cut the connection, satisfied. Then restless a moment later. No matter how much he trusted Brutus, certainty was out of reach unless he saw her himself. 

_Dear Jules, You've met Brutus, I presume? We've known each other for many years, more than you think. It pays to have people on both sides, although I've never known you to be capable of duplicity. Deviancy, to be sure, but you could only deceive when the truth mattered no more than the lie._

He tried adding another line, but no ink came out. He tossed his pen across the office, having turned it to gold without realizing. 

* * *

White walls, white floors. White halls, white rooms. Espionage was meant to be done in the background, yet here he was in plain view. Patrolling the third floor, pacing from vestibule to lobby and back again. 

He didn't look twice at the henchman he passed, though he was annoyed that he was taking so long to be scanned and admitted into the secondary lobby. He tried to go around him, but grazed the henchman's elbow. A haze of blue static, and a stranger appeared in his place. A disguise. That was a new one. 

Or was it? Midas stepped back, firing a tad wildly but still taking better aim than the stranger. This one wore a mask, so he couldn't see their expression, but he figured it was one of frustration, at being discovered, at being defeated so easily. He wanted to see it. To know. 

He reached for their head as they disappeared. The drone still took them away, but there it was: their mask, turning to gold in the palm of his hand. 

* * *

He hung it in a display case, stepped back and admired it. Started the phonograph on the way to his desk as he gave the photograph a quick glance. 

_Dear Jules,_ he wrote. _Perhaps there are other methods of deception that I was not previously aware of._

* * *

For every new trophy, another letter to write. But that was the extent of the correlation between the two; he never mentioned the strangers in his letters, nor the fact that too many of the faces were familiar, nor the fact that too many of them were the same. Instead, he struggled with what to tell her and what to leave out. All the things he wanted to say, and all the things he couldn't say. All of it, before the loop took it all away for good. 

_Dear Jules, I always intended us to end up at Ghost, and your talents have helped us so much, and I should have thanked you for it long ago instead of focusing on how much closer I was to reaching my own goals._

Hiding them amid his diagrams and equations, always slid out of sight when an agent came by. 

_Dear Jules, I liked it better when we worked on the same floor. But we both needed more space. You, because your ingenuity knows no bounds and needed room to be be realized; and me, because my ego had grown beyond what I wanted you to witness. I thought it was simply a consequence of my duties, that I was trying to protect you from how busy I was, that my absence would distract you from any distraction I might provide you in return. But it was always just arrogance. And you knew it for what it was much faster than I did._

He flipped over the page and wrote a string of letters and numbers dotted with mathematical operations, throwing in a Greek letter or two for good measure. Then he crossed it out and shuffled a few signs around in a new line below. Tina rolled her eyes and left him alone. He flipped the paper back over. 

_Dear Jules, I never really liked chocolate that much, but I endured neopolitan because you could never settle on just one flavor. I should've apologized every time I ate all the vanilla and threw away the rest. Sometimes I ate the strawberry too. I only threw it away because I knew you wouldn't eat it if you couldn't get a perfect balance of each flavor in every scoop._

He filed each letter away not in his desk but in an unassuming box. Let the agents think it was trash if they found it. For all it would amount to, it was that anyway. 

Brutus called again. "Do you want me to say anything to her? She's kept pretty busy here, but..."

Midas hesitated. "No, nothing," he decided, then closed the channel. 

* * *

Some days, the sky above the Agency was bright. Some nights, auroras danced across a clear sea of stars. He would see it through the skylight, the dancing rays of light. Then morning would come, and the sun would hide it away. Daytime was boring in comparison: just clouds drifting across the sky, a tad too fast to be realistic. 

Sometimes, Midas watched the sunset from the window of the office on the third floor. He couldn't help but find it strange that the island had days at all. The island was the result of interdimensional collisions and did not exist in anything resembling a star system; the sun was only an illusion. To set those trapped here at ease? Or to further lock them in the loop? He wanted to write down this thought, but he couldn't risk it while on patrol. But maybe- 

_Help_ , went the radio, and he sighed and raced out of the room. Clackety-clack went the drum gun when he found the intruder. The thought was gone for now, but maybe it would come back on another loop. If it had even been there in the first place. 

_Dear Jules, Do you even remember me? Remember anything before this?_

* * *

_Dear Jules, I hope you've found friends there. If not, then maybe mine will do._

Midas had been many things in his life: a brilliant student, a cunning spy, a shrewd executive. But it seemed he was not a good boss. Too many empty seats in the conference room, and he wasn't even sitting in his favorite chair, having had to pull in a hopelessly normal one from another room. He despised meetings, but perhaps they would have helped. 

Skye sat next to him, biting her lip as she looked over his plans for the Shark. "A prison?" she said, with just enough of a lilt to make him think it was a question. He wanted to reassure her, but it was hard, with the paranoia gripping his mind. What was the old saying? _K_ _eep your friends close, but your enemies closer._ He'd been doing a bad job at both. It was time to change that. 

_Dear Jules, What value is a leader without anyone following them?_

* * *

There was still so much to do, and so few people left to do it. So he'd do it himself. 

It felt good to get out of the Agency, to get away from the hideout. His head still beat with anxiety, but the fresh air did a lot to silence it. He spotted a collection of pink bears near Risky Reels and couldn't help but smile. The island was as eccentric as always, it seemed. He stopped at the weapon bench and upgraded his suppressed sniper rifle to legendary because the henchman who gave it to him had been too lazy to find one for him. He noticed a chopper in the air and took a few shots at it. It fell out of the sky shortly after, but was miraculously intact when he reached it. For a brief moment, he considered going back to the Agency. But the freedom was intoxicating, so he slid into the pilot's seat. 

He flew to the Yacht and was confused to see spotlights. He touched his comm. "Can you check in on the Yacht?" he asked, and heard a brief swish of air on the other side before the line went dead. It was hard giving orders to that agent, but he hadn't failed him yet. 

Midas flew southwest, over Frenzy Farm, over the Agency, over Weeping Woods. He glanced down to spot the two fast food mascot heads, coated in vines. Greasy Graves, the island called it. Did they remember, or did they just like the alliteration, as they did everywhere else? 

Pipes. He had to stay focused. He landed near the Rig, still in ruins, and did his work. He circled the island, going wherever there were pipes, and leaving golden wrenches in his wake. But when he reached one in Steamy Stacks, a wrench was already there. 

"Jules?" he called, scanning the area. But there was no one there. 

* * *

There were eyes watching him from across the lake, now. 

Midas stood on the steps outside the Agency, gripping his typewriter. He longed to fire it, to hear its clackety-clack, but there was no time for that now. He was here for a different reason, and he couldn't risk a confrontation. So let them watch, let them scheme. They couldn't stop him. 

There. On the water's surface, where one of the hatches rested on the lake floor below, a spurt of bubbles. Then more, in a steady stream. 

They both saw it, Midas and the man across the lake. Their eyes met, over the channel where the bubbles frothed. 

Midas smiled. He smiled until his face began to hurt, and then he broke into laughter until tears were streaming down his cheek. 

* * *

There were more of them now, swimming over the hatches like drunken dolphins, trying to figure out what they were for. They became even more perplexed when the hatches opened. There were more intruders than ever, making his head spin trying to keep up with every call for help. Clackety-clack, went the constant buzz between his ears. It never quieted, even when he was in his office, watching the device charge and charge. 

When would it be time to use it? How would he know it was enough? 

He wrote more letters, until his wrist was sore and he couldn't keep his lines straight. He missed his typewriter. If Jules was here, he would have her turn the drum gun into an actual typewriter and save him from this hell. He laughed, actually laughed, at that thought. If Jules was here, there were far more important things he would ask of her. Otherwise, what was the point of all these letters? 

Perhaps he was truly losing his mind. 

How else to explain the terror he felt when the device hit maximum charge? He felt paralyzed at the sight of it pulsing beyond his office window. He never had to worry about turning on a lamp there, now. It was bright enough to illuminate the entire room. 

"Sir?" It was a quiet voice, but it startled him all the same. Maya. "Are you ever going to... use it?"

He turned to see her leaning against the hallway wall, watching him and not the device behind him. "There have been a few issues," he told her. "Give it a few days."

"It's already been a few weeks," she said. 

Of course she knew that. The countdown was there on his desk, and in the lobby as well. This weekend for sure, he would think, then change his mind and reset the timer. Next weekend, he thought then. Next weekend for sure. 

"Sir-"

"I need to make a call," he said abruptly. "Could you double check the cables? I think they're getting loose again." They'd never been loose to begin with, but she didn't know that. She clearly suspected it, however, by the look on her face as she left. 

"Maya, wait." 

She paused in the doorway, silhouetted against the portrait of her. Maya was near completely unrecognizable from the woman in the frame. When had that happened? "Tell the henchmen to light the beacon. I want everyone on this island to know when we activate the device."

"When will that be?" She clearly didn't believe him. 

He picked up the timer on his desk, pressing a few buttons. "June fifteenth."

She raised an eyebrow. "That's a Monday."

"Yes."

"I thought the plan was always to go on a Saturday."

"Plans change."

If this didn't work, he wanted to have both days of his last weekend, damn it. 

* * *

He stood on the top level balcony, staring up through the skylight. At the numbers hanging in the sky, ever counting downward. 

_See, everyone,_ he thought. _I'll do it. I'll fucking do it._

Clackety-clack, went the drum gun in his hands, shaking against the railing. 

* * *

There were rumors on the island. He heard them on the lips of the intruders. All kinds of theories, and none of them true. They had no idea. He was terrified he was just as clueless as they were. 

The countdown was the only thing keeping him centered. He watched it whenever he could. Silently ticking down, but he thought he could hear it anyway. Tick-tock, tick-tock. A much more maddening sound than clackety-clack. But he savored each decreased number regardless, every blink of the text that brought him closer and closer to victory. 

_Dear Jules, I thought I saw you in my office today. You questioned whether the device would work, and I told you it was based on your designs, and that I still trusted you. And you reminded me that I was the one building it, and that it had a massive flaw. Engineers always have failsafes, backup plans, shutoff valves and killswitches just in case things go wrong. I have nothing and no one. Because of course you weren't there. Of course._

He almost threw that one in the wastebin, but changed his mind at the last second. 

* * *

It would not be long now. 

The henchmen were in a frenzy, performing the last checks. And so was Midas, shut in his office, moving his letters into a proper filing cabinet; there were far too many to be shut in a single box at this point, and he wanted to ensure that Jules had some way of knowing what order to read them. If she ever read them. In the morning, he would call in a henchman and tell him to put the cabinet somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was out of the way. 

Midas picked up a sheet of paper and went to his lectern. He wrote one last letter, hunched over the stand by the window overlooking the device. Rewrote it over and over again, until it was just right, while the device's light pulsed and created shadows that danced against the walls of his office. He read it over and over again, bleary eyed, as the words ran together in his head. Was he just rambling, or was it enough? At this point, it had to be; he couldn't stay awake any longer. He slid it in the very back of the bottom drawer. If Jules ever read them, that one had to be saved for last. 

He staggered back to his room, not bothering to undress, too tired to even kick off his shoes. He collapsed in his bed, and as soon as he closed his eyes, his mind filled with images of the device, pulsing and charging. It had to work. It would have to be enough. 

The whispers on the island spoke of doomsday, but he dreamed of deliverance. 


End file.
